


A Craving for Kindness

by sahiya



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling, House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-11
Updated: 2009-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-04 08:31:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A werewolf and a doctor walk into a bar on the full moon . . . and the next day, the werewolf finds himself in Princeton Plainsboro Hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Craving for Kindness

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://community.livejournal.com/crossover_hp/profile)[**crossover_hp**](http://community.livejournal.com/crossover_hp/) fest for my own prompt: Remus Lupin/James Wilson. Thanks to [](http://jaebi-lit.livejournal.com/profile)[**jaebi_lit**](http://jaebi-lit.livejournal.com/) and [](http://fuzzyboo03.livejournal.com/profile)[**fuzzyboo03**](http://fuzzyboo03.livejournal.com/) for the beta. Set post-PoA for HP and pre-series for House.

The bar is nicer than the sort Remus usually frequents. It's bigger than a breadbox, for one thing, and he doesn't worry about what he might catch if he sits on the furniture. The chairs are steady, there's no hint of cigarette smoke, and the bar itself isn't even tacky from having rum and Cokes spilled on it by clumsy university students. This undoubtedly means that a whiskey and soda will cost him far more than it ever should, but the last of his "severance pay" (_Albus's charity_, Remus's mind whispers) was owled to him today. The Galleon to dollar ratio is quite good these days, so he can afford it. For now.

Besides, he's saved on accommodations this evening. He will be spending it in a warehouse on the outskirts of town, the sort of place where a bit of howling isn't likely to be noticed.

"What'll you have?" the barkeep asks. Remus doesn't really notice the flat, American accent anymore, not unless he's listening for it.

"Whiskey and soda, please," he says. As expected, the price makes him flinch, but perhaps it's for the best. Getting too drunk the night of the full just makes the morning after more miserable, but a glass or two as anesthesia never hurt. Or at least, not noticeably more than anything else.

He hitches himself onto a bar stool while he waits for his drink. He glances around, his finely honed sense of paranoia making him note who else is in the room and where. Not too many, since it's early still: a couple is snogging in the corner on one of the sofas; two women with tall, pink drinks sit chatting at a table by the windows; and at the other end of the bar a very handsome man in a white dress shirt, slacks, and a loosened tie sits drooping over his drink.

The bartender brings Remus his drink on a serviette. The first swallow burns; either all the liquor is floating on top or he actually got his money's worth. "Thank you," he says.

The man at the end of the bar raises his head. "Where're you from?" he asks.

Remus glances at him, bemused. "England." The man raises his eyebrows and Remus sighs to himself. "A bit of all over. Originally London, but we moved around quite a bit. No one place to call home." Not true, but he can't tell this man about Hogwarts. Remus hasn't met a single wizard since coming to the U.S. and he intends to keep it that way. "Yourself?"

"Connecticut, originally," he said. His glass is empty and he gestures for another. The barkeep gives him a skeptical look, but pours it anyway. He's drinking a single malt Remus has never heard of. Remus eyes the suit again, realizes the tie is silk, and decides he's probably a solicitor. Just his luck. Still, given the choice between drinking alone while contemplating exactly how badly tonight's transformation is going to hurt (a lot) and chatting up a solicitor, he'll take the solicitor.

"So what has you drinking at four in the afternoon on a Tuesday?" the man asks.

Remus considers the variety of answers he could give, from "in about two hours I'll turn into a ravening beast and try to rip off my own limbs" to "I'm terribly lonely and I miss England." In the end, though, he goes with, "I lost my job."

"Oh," the man says, and to Remus's relief does not offer to help him sue his former employer. "I'm sorry. What happened?"

Remus smiles tightly. This part he's figured out how to explain, and it's even true; it isn't his fault if people make assumptions. "I was outed."

"Oh," he says, this time with drunken sympathy. "That's terrible."

"Mmm. I worked at a school, you see."

"Oh." The man sips his drink. "Terrible."

Remus nods. "And you?"

He sighs heavily. "I lost a wife."

The way he phrases it is so odd, Remus doesn't know what to think. Lost as in . . . dead? It's his first assumption, but only because Remus rarely loses people any other way. He hangs on to them hard when he has them, or at least he used to. But while the man seems sad, Remus doesn't think it looks like grieving, really, more melancholic resignation. "I'm sorry," he says, in his turn.

The man nods morosely. "I can't seem to keep them. She was the second." Another sip, this time more of a gulp. "My best friend," he continues with an odd sneer, "says that it's because I just love to be in love."

"Seems like a strange thing for a best friend to say."

"Yeah, well, you haven't met my friend." He sighs. "Maybe he's right. Maybe it's the chase I like, and once I have them, I'm just . . . bored. There's always a nurse or a med student or a - a physical therapist."

So. Not a solicitor after all. Doctor. Definitely a step up in Remus's opinion, even if he's obviously a doctor who can't keep his hands to himself. Remus wonders if he's only that way about women, or if his condition might not be a bit more wide-ranging. He's not homophobic, at least, but that doesn't mean anything. Probably it's just the full moon talking, anyway; Remus never considers picking up strange men otherwise.

"Hmm," is all Remus says. He's reached the bottom of his drink and it still burns. He orders another, and the doctor pays for it over his protests. Remus is suddenly conscious of all the small ways his poverty gives itself away: frayed cuffs, a tattered wallet, hair that has obviously gone too long without a cut. Whatever sort of doctor this man is, it obviously pays quite well.

Remus clears his throat. "Where's your best friend right now?" he asks. "Shouldn't he be here, helping you drown your sorrows?"

"He has a case."

Remus blinks. "A case?"

"Yes. Some kid with - with - hell, we don't know. Something weird. But not cancer, so I wasn't needed. Dismissed."

Cancer doctor, then. Remus wracks his brain for the word for that. Ontologist? No, but close. Oncologist, that's it. "I see."

"Think he forgot the papers were gonna come today anyway. He's not real good at being . . . considerate." He squints at Remus over the lip of his glass. "What about you? You have a best friend?"

Remus opens his mouth to reply, then shuts it. Sirius. He's not sure what Sirius is to him anymore. He's not heard from him, and Albus instructed Remus not to owl him because it might not be safe for him to receive them. Who else qualifies? Certainly not Severus, not after what happened in June. Not before then, either; Severus was always crystal clear about how little he liked Remus. They knew each other's bodies inside and out after last year, but friendship never had any part to play in their affair. "No," he says succinctly.

The doctor nods. "They're overrated." He heaves a sigh and slides off the bar stool, gathering up his jacket. "I should go. Thanks for -" He gestures vaguely.

Remus shrugs. "I didn't do anything."

He sighs again. "More than some. Have a nice evening."

"You, too," Remus says, but the man is already gone. Remus wonders if he should make sure he gets home all right, but then he glances at his watch and realizes he doesn't have the time. He tosses back his second drink and leaves the bar. He turns the corner into a back alley, checks up and down, then casts a cloaking spell for good measure. He turns on his heel and disappears.

***

Remus doesn't know if a year of wolfsbane has actually made the transformations worse when he goes without, or if the effects are purely psychological. This is a question that he contemplates the rest of the month, in an objective, academic sense. If Severus were speaking to him, he'd probably wish to know. But one night of the month, when his bones rip themselves apart and reknit themselves in his wolf form, Remus doesn't give a krupp's arse.

Because the transformations have got worse, there's no denying it. Sometimes he thinks, just before his human mind slips away into the murk, shoved below by the ascending wolf mind, that Moony is angry after being kept tethered for a year. The wolfsbane has proved to be a thorny sort of gift, the only kind Severus has ever given him. Now that the flower has withered and died, he's left pricking himself again and again.

He never knows how bad it will actually be, not until it begins and he can gauge the intensity of the early symptoms. This month they're particularly violent: he lands on his hands and knees, vomiting, and it feels as though his bones will rip straight through his skin. He curls in on himself, shuddering, and knows, in his last moments of consciousness, that the aftermath of this will be very, very bad.

***

His nose knows before the rest of him that he won't wake in the abandoned warehouse in a pool of his own blood, as he expected. Smell always returns first and his nose twitches at the scent of antiseptic. Hearing is next: subdued voices, the squeak of rubber-soled shoes on linoleum, the distant, impersonal sound of someone being paged. Both senses feel muted as his brain struggles to shift from wolf expectations to human ones. Only once it's managed that is he allowed to open his eyes, blinking in bemusement at the clean, white-washed ceiling overhead.

"Thank you," someone says, and then the rubber-soled shoes leave, sliding a door shut behind her - him? Remus starts to lift his head to look, then thinks better of it.

"So, you're awake."

The voice is familiar. Remus turns his head on the pillow - the clean, white pillow, which smells faintly of a very impersonal detergent. He's figured out where he is now, even if he doesn't know how or why or _how_. He almost doesn't care. At least, not until he sees the man from the bar the night before standing beside his bed. Remus feels his jaw drop open in shock. He's cleaned up: the tie, still elegant, muted silk, is neatly knotted now, his shirt much less rumbled and covered by a white coat. _Dr. James Wilson_, his blue-stitched nametag declares.

Dr. Wilson doesn't wait for an answer - he doesn't even seem to expect one. Instead he bends over Remus, checking his pupils with a little flashlight. Then he listened to Remus's chest with a stethescope, tests his reflexes with fingers that are warm and dry, professional but gentle. Remus finds his eyes drifting shut. This isn't the same as having a friend there to care for him the morning after, but it's close enough that he can pretend - and that's something he didn't have last year, even with the wolfsbane. Severus wouldn't come near him for days.

Looking back, Remus thinks he should have been less understanding of this than he was.

"Remus?" Wilson says quietly when he's finished.

Remus opens his eyes, reluctantly, and decides it's time to attempt speaking. His throat hurts when he swallows, but that's normal. He clears it, painfully, and manages, "How did you - how did I -"

Wilson silences him by offering him water in a cup with a straw. Remus drinks gratefully, and Dr. Wilson pulls a seat up next to the bed. "It's probably best if you try not to talk. Your throat is pretty raw. You wanted to know how I knew who you were? And how you got here?" Remus nods. Wilson holds up his tattered wallet. "This would be your answer to the first. As for the second . . ." He pauses, sets the wallet on the tray table, and regards Remus for a moment. "The paramedics brought you in early this morning. You were naked and bleeding, badly. Someone had reported something that sounded like screaming or howling in a warehouse outside town. The police investigated and found you. A good thing, too," he adds. "You would have bled to death otherwise."

Not very likely, really. The curse has ways of preserving itself - and him. He heals very quickly; if the police hadn't found him he'd likely have stopped bleeding soon enough. He'd have woken very weak though; he feels weak even now, though he can see a bag of blood hanging on a hook over the bed with a dark red line running to his arm. Very weak and glad to be lying down in a clean bed. But American hospitals are expensive and he has no insurance. It's this last worry, so mundane but so vital, that prompts him to ask, "Where am I?"

"Princeton Plainsboro Hospital. We run a free clinic. I recognized you when I came in this morning to do my hours."

Free clinic. Thank Merlin. Wilson must see the relief on Remus's face, because he smiles with sympathy before offering more water. Remus sips, glad that he isn't expected to come up with anything else just now. The police will probably want to speak with him; Remus plans to have absolutely no recollection of anything after Wilson left the bar the night before.

Though come to think of it, Remus realizes, that might put Wilson in a bit of a tough spot, if he doesn't have anyone to vouch for where he was. Perhaps they'll simply assume he's a drug addict and leave it at that.

"Are you in pain?" Wilson asks, when the water is gone.

Remus is surprised to realize the answer is no - or rather, he knows he should be in pain, but he isn't. It's as though there is a fluffy cloud between him and the morning-after aching and cramping. Whatever they gave him makes his head feel rather woozy - though that might also be the blood loss. "No," Remus rasps.

Wilson nods, apparently satisfied. Then he glances at his watch and grimaces. "Get some rest. I'll be back as soon as -"

The curtain partitioning off the area around Remus's bed is suddenly yanked back. Remus startles, tensing, and has to swallow a yelp as abused muscles protest. Wilson doesn't startle, but rather gives a long-suffering sigh. "House, I was on my way up," he says.

"I know. But rumor has it you have a new puppy." Remus tenses again, but the man - House? - eyes him with cold, detached interest - not the way a Muggle faced with a werewolf might act. He looks . . . well, "scruffy" would be charitable. His clothes are more tattered than Remus's, and he has four days of beard growth peppering his chin. He grips a cane in one hand, Remus notices, with a rather detached interest of his own. "The nurses are all abuzz. I just had to come down and see what Jimmy had dragged home this time."

"House."

"I really expected something younger. And with much bigger breasts. Hard to tell about the legs from here."

"_House_."

So. This is the best friend. Remus eyes him back with some annoyance. Wilson sighs and stands, pats him on the shoulder. "Rest, all right? I'll come look in on you in a bit."

House stands aside to let Wilson by. Then he turns to look at Remus. "Just remember," he says, with a wide-eyed, mocking glare, "I'll always be his favorite." He limps away, and Remus is left wondering if he's supposed to take that seriously.

Maybe Wilson's roving eye has a wider range of interest than Remus thought.

He falls back to sleep thanks to the painkillers and his usual morning after exhaustion. He wakes achey and starving. He struggles to sit up, thinking he might find the cafeteria, then realizes he won't be going anywhere wearing this hospital gown. He sighs and lets himself slump back against his pillows. Perhaps Wilson will be back soon. Or perhaps he already was and Remus was asleep. He wonders where his clothes ended up; he tried to put them where they wouldn't get torn up and shredded by Moony, but that also means the police might not have found them. This is a problem, since his battered suitcase is shrunk and concealed in the pocket of his trousers. He decides Wilson probably wouldn't just abandon him here - not that he has much reason to think that. Still, it seems the only thing to do is lie back and wait.

When the curtain is yanked back again, though, it's not Wilson but House. Remus tenses instantly; there's something about the way House looks at him that he doesn't much like. House has a clipboard in his free hand. He hobbles over to the bed, flips back a page, and says, "Well. You're much more interesting than Wilson's usual strays."

"I'm not a -" Remus pauses to clear his throat, but it's feels much better than it did earlier. "I'm not a _stray_," he says at last.

House ignores this. "You were brought in unconscious with lacerations all over your body, extensive bruising, and some impressive blood loss after being found in an abandoned and condemned building. Toxicology report turned up nothing, which probably just means you're into something really exotic, and the lacerations were consistent with scratches made by a wild animal. Except, this is New Jersey. We don't do nature." He smiles, but Remus is in no way tempted to return it. "So." He lets the clipboard fall to the bed. "Usually I'd try to guess what happened to you, but unless you were held hostage by wild dogs, I'm all out. What happened to you?"

"I don't remember."

"That's what I thought you'd say. I don't believe you. And neither will that nice cop who came by earlier. Wilson fended her off for you, but don't worry," House smiles grimly, "she'll be back."

Remus sighs. His story just has too many holes in it and he can't think well enough to fill them in. He'd prefer to just go back to sleep, but the way House is looking at him tells him it isn't an option. He has the air of something snarly protecting its den. Though why House should feel threatened by him if Wilson often takes in "strays," Remus can only guess.

In the end, he just says, "I don't remember. I'm sorry if you don't believe me."

House sneers - probably at the apology. "I take back what I said before. You're not more interesting than Wilson's usual strays. Though you are a lot more male."

"I'm not a stray," Remus says again. "We got to talking last night at a bar and he recognized me this morning."

House's eyebrows fly up and then, quickly, lower into something remarkably like a scowl. Remus knows he shouldn't poke the jealous rabid moongoose like this, but he can't seem to help himself. "You met at a bar? Tsk, tsk. Wilson should have told me he was on the pull." He says this last in a fake British accent Remus knows is meant to mock his own.

Remus shrugs. "He was looking for someone to talk to, I think. He seemed rather depressed about signing his divorce papers."

House falters. Not much, but Remus is looking for the crack in the facade. He sees it - the split second when House's face blanks out before resettling into his sneer - and knows that House completely forgot about the papers. Remus doesn't know Wilson very well - or at all, really - but he feels a kinship of sorts with the man. And there is something about House that reminds him undeniably of Snape: a bitter, jealous prick who can't make himself happy, much less anyone else, but refuses to let anyone hone in on his territory.

"And you thought you'd just cheer him up," House says, now outright glaring. "Tell me, is he as much of a big, nancy bottom as I've always suspected?"

Before Remus can decide whether to make something up - _No, in fact_ he_ tied_ me_ to the bed_ \- or if that would only make matters worse, the curtain is yanked back again and Wilson says, "I heard that. House, don't you have a patient seizing in an MRI machine or something?"

"No. Turns out it was small cell vasculitis. Boring. Your patient, though." House waves the clipboard. "Held hostage by wild dogs. Way cooler. Plus, he needs a rabies shot. Three, actually." He reaches into his pocket and withdraws three syringes, holding them up in triumph.

Wilson grabs the chart and the syringes out of House's hands. "True. But medically dull. Seriously, House, get out of here. I need to speak to Mr. Lupin."

"Ooh, you call him _mister_. I like it."

"House -"

House gives a deep, martyred sigh. "Fine. Time for _General Hospital_ anyway. Be sure to let me know later who let the dogs out. Woof." House casts one last inscrutable look over his shoulder at Remus, then reaches into his pocket and flips something at Wilson, who catches it automatically, glances at it, and rolls his eyes. He opens his mouth to say something, but the curtain is already swishing shut behind House.

Wilson stuffs whatever it is in his pocket. "I'm sorry about him," he says, stepping around the bed. "He's . . . House."

"Mm. Don't worry about it. He reminds me of someone from back home. It was almost comforting."

"_House_ and _comforting_ in the same sentence." Wilson shakes his head. "I think that might be a first. He's right, though, you do need a rabies shot."

"Don't suppose you'd believe me if I tell you I really, really don't?" Remus asks with little hope.

Wilson shakes his head. "The way this works is that these two," he holds up the larger syringes, "are what's called immunoglobin. I give you half in the area of the worst wound - which happens to be your thigh - and half in your upper arm. The third one is just plain old rabies vaccine, but you'll need to come back for the rest of the course over the next month. No giant needle through the stomach like they used to do, I promise. Okay?"

Remus nods, figuring to protest more would only draw undue attention. Wilson works quickly; Remus stares at the ceiling and ignores the minute pricks of the needles. He looks up when he hears Wilson strip off his gloves and toss everything away in a bin. Then he takes Remus's wrist in his bare hand, watches his watch briefly, and nods. "How are you feeling?"

"Achey," Remus says truthfully. The scratches are probably all gone now, and nothing else is anything that will show up on Muggle tests - he hopes - but the effects of having most of one's bones broken twice in twelve hours, not to mention all of one's internal organs shifted about, last quite a bit longer. He won't feel himself again for at least two or three days.

"Remarkable," Wilson says, almost to himself. "You looked so terrible this morning I almost didn't recognize you, and now you're practically recovered."

"I heal quickly."

"No kidding."

Remus decides it's time to change the subject. This is too close to things he'd rather not have to lie about. "Er . . . do you know if the police brought my clothes in as well?"

"Yes, here." He pulls open a drawer down below the bed and retrieves Remus's shirt, trousers, belt, and shorts. Remus quickly feels for the shrunken valise, and is relieved to find that it's still in the pocket. Wilson pauses, watching him. "It was strange," he says after a moment. "The officer I spoke to said they were in a different room, very neatly folded."

"Hmm. That is puzzling."

Wilson eyes him. "Speaking of officers, there's one here to see you. Feel up to it?"

Remus decides it's best to get it over with. Alternatively he could just disappear, but he doesn't want to do that until he's certain Wilson won't have any problems on his behalf. "All right. I truly don't remember, though."

Wilson raises an eyebrow at him. "You don't remember, but you were ready to swear to me that you didn't need a rabies shot?"

Remus glances away. Embarrassing slip of the tongue, that was. "I don't like needles."

Wilson looks skeptical, but he doesn't say anything more. Instead, he retrieves the officer and ducks away, though Remus can see through the half-open curtain that he's lingering at the nurses' station, filling in forms and signing things in folders. He glances up once to meet Remus's eyes and gives him a reassuring smile.

The officer, a detective, has kind eyes, is dressed in street clothes, and sits in Wilson's vacated chair by the side of the bed. She asks him a number of probing questions to try and trigger his memory. Remus says he left the bar where he'd met Wilson, saw Wilson get into a taxi, and then caught one himself. And there, he says, twelve or fourteen times, his memory ends.

She doesn't believe him either. That's all right; she doesn't have to. As long as she believes that Wilson didn't have anything to do with the "assault," as she calls it.

She gives up after an hour, leaving him her card with instructions to call if he remembers anything. He takes it and thanks her. After she leaves, Remus sticks it on the bedside tray table, behind a cup of melted ice chips. He sits up on the edge of the bed, ignoring the various protests this triggers in his poor, mangled body, and begins to dress. It takes him a few minutes; he has to pause and rest for a bit after each article of clothing, and the trousers in particular give him trouble. He's just buckling his belt when Wilson reappears.

"Going somewhere?"

"I thought so," Remus says, sitting on the edge of the bed to put on his shoes and socks. "As you say, I'm pretty well recovered from whatever happened."

"Recovered is a relative term," Wilson says. He crosses his arms over his chest. "I meant, 'recovered in comparison to death warmed over,' which is not the same as _well_. I'd like us to keep you over night for observation - I've arranged a real room for you, no more curtained off cubicle."

"Thank you, but I'm fine."

"As your doctor, I'm telling you you aren't."

Remus shrugs. "I've had worse," he says honestly. "And I don't like hospitals."

"Where are you going to go then? Because call this a hunch, but I don't think you live around here."

Remus shook his head. "I don't," he says, bending to tie his shoelaces. He hides his wince by keeping his face tilted down, but somehow he knows he isn't fooling Wilson. "But they have these things called motels where you can rent a room. I thought I'd give that a whirl."

Wilson frowned. "You ought to have someone looking after you, Remus. If something happens, it could be be two, three days before someone bothers to check."

"One day, really. Housekeeping always comes round."

Wilson's mouth tightens. "Not good enough."

"Well," Remus sighs, "I'm afraid that's my only option." Not an appealing one, but he's certainly used to it. The bed will be clean - probably - and the water in the bath will be hot. He'll rest for a few days and move on.

Wilson takes a deep breath. "It's not. Stay with me."

Remus blinks at him, bemused. "Is this an offer you make all your patients?"

Wilson shakes his head minutely. Remus stares at him, considering, then wonders why he hasn't said no yet. He doesn't accept charity, not outright at least. But he likes Wilson. He likes how he looked the night before, rumpled and sad, and he likes how he is today, professional and gentle and kind. Remus thinks he could grow particularly fond of Wilson's kindness, and that's dangerous. They come from different worlds; Remus is currently sojourning in Wilson's, but he doesn't pretend he'll be here forever.

And yet, he finds himself saying, "All right" without really meaning to. "Just tonight, though," he adds conscientiously. "Tomorrow morning -"

"Right," Wilson says.

***

Wilson's flat has an unlived-in feel about it, almost like a hotel. No family photos on the walls, no books spread out over the living room, not even any unwashed dishes by the kitchen sink. Remus wonders exactly how much time Wilson actually spends here and gets his answer when Wilson's phone rings two minutes after they've walked in the door.

"Yes, I'm at home," Wilson says, with an impatient bite in his voice, "as you can probably tell by the fact that I just answered - no, I can't - no, I have someone here. Yes. Yes. NO. _House_. House, I'm hanging up. You're just going to have to entertain yourself tonight. No, absolutely not. No. Good-_bye_, House." He hangs up and stands there for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You two sound like you have an interesting friendship," Remus observes.

"Interesting. AKA dysfunctional, twisted, and aggravating. Which, come to think of it, are also words that describe House. Are you hungry?"

Remus woke up ravenous and now he's even worse. He doesn't want to be a bother and he definitely doesn't want Wilson buying him dinner or, worse yet, cooking for him, but his stomach forces him to say, "Yes. Very."

Wilson opens the refrigerator, grimaces, and closes it. "Pizza or Chinese?"

"Whichever you prefer." Wilson gives him a look; Remus smiles apologetically. "Chinese, I suppose."

"Anything you don't eat?"

Remus shakes his head. "Just . . . something with protein in it, please."

Wilson nods and picks up the phone again to place the order. Remus wanders back into the living room and sits down on the sofa. It's comfortable - better than the hospital bed, really. Better than a lot of hotel beds. Considerably cleaner, too, if his estimation of Wilson is correct.

"Remus." Remus glances up; Wilson is hovering in the threshold between the living room and the kitchen, his hands braced on either side of the doorjamb. "Want me to show you the guest room?"

Remus blinks. Guest room. That didn't occur to him. He's almost disappointed; the sofa is very comfortable. But he smiles gamely and follows Wilson down the corridor to what is indeed a second bedroom, stuffed with boxes that haven't been unpacked yet. Wilson hands him a stack of fluffy towels along with sweats and a t-shirt, tells him they have a few minutes before the food will get here, and directs him to the bathroom. Remus thinks perhaps he should be offended by this, but he knows he smells like blood and hospital and old sweat, so he takes advantage of the suggestion without hesitation.

When he comes out, the food has arrived and Remus realizes that it was likely a ploy to avoid any sort of argument about who would pay. It's worked, too, because now there isn't any way for Remus to bring it up that wouldn't seem awkward and ungrateful. "Thank you," he says, when they're seated across from each other at a small card table in the kitchen. "Not just for the food, either, I really - this is so far beyond anything you needed to do for me, I really don't know what to say."

"Don't worry about it," Wilson says. He shrugs. "You were nice to me last night at the bar when I needed it."

"I talked to you, that's all," Remus says. "It wasn't anything that - that warrants all of this." Too late - much, much too late - it occurs to him that he probably should be more suspicious than he is. A man he barely knows invites him into his home, knowing that he's weak, knowing that he doesn't have anyone to miss him. Remus has his wand tucked into his sleeve so he isn't worried, but it's possible Wilson's intentions are not so altruistic as they seem. Remus really should have thought of that sooner.

Wilson is watching him. Remus hopes his thoughts aren't readable on his face, but he suspects they are. Wilson chews and swallows a contemplative bite of fried rice and says, "Sometimes it isn't about an even exchange. Sometimes it's just . . . being human." He hesitates. "And . . . I like you."

Remus nods, staring down at his own food, then looks up. "I like you, too."

"Plus," Wilson adds, in the tone of someone about to make a joke that isn't really funny at all, "sometimes it's a pleasant change of pace to be around someone who isn't constantly trying to see how far he can push me before I snap."

Remus gives a brief laugh. "Yes, I do know what you mean. Er . . . I hope you don't mind my asking, but you and House, are you . . . ?" He waves his fork vaguely.

Wilson laughs. "No, thank God. I think that might be the only thing I have going for me anymore. One last scrap of self-preservation and dignity. Besides, House isn't in love with me, he just doesn't like to share." He raises his eyebrows. "What about you and your House?"

"Snape."

"Sorry?"

Remus smiles tightly. "My House's name is Snape." What an odd phrase. "Severus Snape," he adds.

Wilson blinks. "How . . . onomonopoeic." Remus grimaces in acknowledgment. "And?"

Remus wipes his mouth on a serviette. "I appear to be lacking in both self-preservation and dignity." He sighs. "It went about as well as you might expect. He got me sacked."

Wilson's mouth drops open. "Oh."

"I'd rather not talk about it, if you don't mind."

"No, no, of course not."

They finish their meal in slightly uncomfortable silence. Remus unobtrusively stuffs himself; he's had nothing in over twenty-four hours, and his transformations always leave him willing to eat the paint off the walls. He does the small amount of washing up over Wilson's protests. While he's busy, Wilson disappears down the corridor and emerges in sweats and a t-shirt sporting the Johns Hopkins University logo. He retrieves two pale green bottles of beer from the fridge and flops on the sofa in front of the impressively large television.

Remus stands in the threshold and wonders if this can possibly be real. This is the sort of scene of domestic tranquility he craved with Severus but could never have. There was nothing comfortable about their relationship, nothing safe, nothing certain.

Coming here was a terrible mistake. Tearing himself away to go back to England, back to a world where he is reviled, where nothing is ever as simple as this feels, will be difficult. Best to leave as soon as possible tomorrow; best of all not to start anything he will have to tear himself away from. Somehow Remus doesn't really see this happening.

Wilson has put a film on; the actor on the screen is vaguely familiar. Remus can't help staring as the opening credits come on, the words scrolling across the screen in a way Remus hasn't seen in an age, not since his last visit to his aunt's family. Wilson says, "The second beer is for you, you know."

"Oh. Right." Remus lowers himself carefully to the other end of the couch; the various aches and pains are still with him, though not as bad as usual. Waking up warm and safe in a real bed makes almost as much of a difference as the wolfsbane does. It's nothing terrible, really. Nothing that will stop him and Wilson from doing whatever they like. If they like. Right now, Wilson seems content to sip his beer and watch the television. The film's title finally emblazons itself across the screen. _Die Hard 2._

Wilson hands him his beer. "I tossed your clothes in the washing machine. I hope you don't mind."

"Oh, no, of course not. Thanks." Remus settles into the sofa with his beer in his hand, leaning his head back. He knows muggle cinema just well enough to recognize it for the sort of film with lots of explosions and no thought required.

Forty-five minutes later, Remus is pretty sure this was a strategic move on Wilson's part, since the lack of thought required for the film means that they're both free to think about other things. There has been a slow but steady shifting ever since they finished the beers, the space between them on the sofa narrowing from six inches, to three, and finally to none at all; Remus's head is now resting against Wilson's shoulder, and part of him thinks it would be just lovely to go to sleep like this. But that part of him shuts up pretty quickly once Wilson twists around on the sofa and kisses him.

Severus did not like kissing. Much of the time they didn't do it at all; if they did it was hard and bruising. Wilson is firmer than Remus expected. He kisses like a man who is used to kissing women who let him take charge, but Remus finds he doesn't mind. Firm is good, especially when there's a certain gentleness there as well. Whatever bollocks House was spouting about Wilson and his strays, Remus is certain that _this_ at least doesn't happen very often.

Ten minutes later they're sprawled on the sofa, chest to chest and hip to hip, snogging messily in a way that reminds Remus like nothing so much as kissing Sirius behind the greenhouses at school. Remus has his hand inside Wilsons's sweatpants, gripping his arse, and Wilson's hand is cupping and rubbing Remus through the fabric of his own. Remus is trying not to thrust up against it, but his breathing has quickened and he knows its only a matter of time. He moans into the kiss and Wilson rubs just a little bit harder and presses just a little bit closer. Remus can feel him, hard and hot against his leg, and he shifts a bit so they're lined up better and tilts his hips. Wilson's fingers dig in where they grip his hip and he gasps into the kiss.

And then the phone rings.

"Shit," Wilson says, pushing himself up. "I'll kill him."

Remus yanks him back down. "Don't answer."

"I have to, you have no idea - if I don't, he'll be over here in half an hour, breaking down the door, claiming he had to be sure you hadn't murdered me." He scrabbles for the phone, lying discarded on the floor beside the sofa. "House," he says, not bothering with _hello_. "What the - How do you think I knew it was you? It's ten-th - no, I haven't been murdered. Go to bed, you insane - no, you know what? I'm hanging up now. Good night." He does so and tosses the phone away. Then he looks at Remus, who sits up in an effort to look less disheveled. He suspects it's futile; his hair is likely sticking up in all directions, he feels flushed, and his erection hasn't diminished in the slightest. Wilson looks much the same. "I'm sorry," Wilson says helplessly.

Remus certainly hopes he's talking about House. "It's all right." Wilson opens his mouth to speak, but Remus kisses him first; he doesn't want to hear Wilson say that he doesn't think this is a good idea, for whatever reason. It probably isn't a good idea, as a matter of fact, but Remus is beyond caring.

The phone rings twice more by the time they make it to the bedroom. The first time Wilson picks it up off the hook and puts it down again immediatley without answering; the second time he lets it go until the answerphone picks up. They both listen for a message, but House doesn't leave one. When another five minutes go by uneventfully, Remus thinks it might be safe to relax. Wilson doesn't seem to agree, and it takes a bit of effort to get him back to the point they were at earlier, snogging on the sofa. But at last Wilson is gasping beneath him, pressing his hips up against Remus's, and the noises he's making are getting more and more desperate. Remus lets him roll them over so he's below; he's not fussy about how they do this, and he suspects that Wilson has never bottomed before.

If Remus were going to stay, which he won't, that'd be something to look forward to.

There are lots of things, though, that Wilson obviously has done before. He's careful but not tentative in breaching Remus's body with his fingers, and he knows exactly how to find that spot that sends Remus arching straight off the bed. Remus closes his eyes. He knows he shouldn't compare, but he can't help remembering what this was like with Snape: rougher, of course, a necessary stage in getting to what Severus really wanted from him. They'd never been careful with each other's bodies. Remus had got so used to pain being part of sex that he'd almost forgotten that it didn't have to be that way.

He opens his eyes when he feels Wilson add a third finger. Neither of them has said anything in several long minutes, and their breathing has grown loud and harsh in the silence. The noises of the city are distant. Remus decides he's had enough of being careful. He pulls his knees up and, though his battered body protests, manages to get them hooked over Wilson's shoulders. He wants to see his face.

"Are you sure?" Wilson asks. His hands are gripping Remus's hips painfully hard.

"Little late for that, isn't it? Yes, I'm sure, I'm sure, just - yes . . ." He finishes on a hiss as Wilson eases himself home. They stay locked together like that until Remus finally relaxes and Wilson begins to move. Remus leans his head back, his hands gripping Wilson's shoulders, and stops thinking about anything or anyone else. He wants to remember everything: Wilson's rhythm inside him, their rocking motion; the smell and texture of Wilson's sheets, rucked up under his hips; Wilson's smooth hand, gripping him and stroking him in time to his thrusts; even the wail of sirens through the open window. He wants to remember how his thighs burned and how he was aroused enough that it felt good. Wants to recall later the expression on Wilson's face looking down at him, his brown eyes dark and wide, his lips parting as his gasps turn to moans on each exhalation.

He comes before Wilson, but not much. Remus shudders around him, muscles tensing and releasing, and Wilson goes utterly silent, his mouth opening in a perfect _oh_. Remus tries to get his eyes to focus so he can watch and remember this, too. Then the moment is past and they collapse together in an exhausted, sweaty heap in the rucked-up sheets, so much softer than anything Remus could ever or would ever consider buying.

Wilson gets up to dispose of the condom and comes back with two glasses of scotch. Remus accepts his and they lie together, not cuddling, really, but touching at hip, shoulder, hand. Relaxing together. Drifting.

At least until Wilson says, "God, I hope House never finds out I actually used the condom he gave me."

Remus laughs, but has to ask, "What?"

"This afternoon when I kicked him out of your room. He threw a condom at me. I really hope he never finds out I ended up using it. He's so insufferable when he's right."

"How often is that?"

"Most of the time." Wilson sighs and sips his scotch. "You baffled him, though. He couldn't figure it out, what happened to you." He turns his head on his pillow to look at Remus. "Don't suppose you'll tell me now, will you?"

Remus shakes his head. "You wouldn't believe me if I did tell you. My advice: Forget about it." _And me_, he doesn't add. For a moment, he wonders if he should do something rather more direct about that; his wand is within reach, and all it would take would be a few muttered words once Wilson falls asleep.

But he can't bring himself to do it, and after all, he intends to be far enough away by tomorrow night that it won't matter. Or so he tells himself, even while imagining what it would be like to stay just one more day, and then one after that. He knows he shouldn't; it will only end in obliviation. And yet the temptation is so strong.

He falls asleep wishing it were possible to obliviate himself. Wondering which life he would forget if he could: the one waiting for him in England, or the one made of possibility lying beside him in the bed.

_Fin._


End file.
